At Wit's End
My insomnia has worn me thin,
when I get out of bed I know not where to begin.
No purpose, no income, no motivation,
hence forth I am consumed by this damnation.
Ativan, Ambien to help cope,
where then is my self to hope?
Spontaneous anguish found in a drawer,
absorbing the pain from the past in horror.
There is but one person who gives me peace,
I can speak from what little I have left from my soul to her,
as all my anguish seems to cease.
There is so much more that I want from her,
yet cherish the friendship, all my feelings transfer.
I feel lost in these long hours of darkness,
At wit's end, sipping bourbon, my misery becoming noxious.
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